In fine, to return to myself:  the only thing by which I something esteem myself, is that wherein never any man thought himself to be defective; my recommendation is vulgar, common, and popular; for who ever thought he wanted sense?  It would be a proposition that would imply a contradiction in itself; ’tis a disease that never is where it is discerned; ’tis tenacious and strong, but what the first ray of the patient’s sight nevertheless pierces through and disperses, as the beams of the sun do thick and obscure mists; to accuse one’s self would be to excuse in this case, and to condemn, to absolve.  There never was porter or the silliest girl, that did not think they had sense enough to do their business.  We easily enough confess in others an advantage of courage, strength, experience, activity, and beauty, but an advantage in judgment we yield to none; and the reasons that proceed simply from the natural conclusions of others, we think, if we had but turned our thoughts that way, we should ourselves have found out as well as they.  Knowledge, style, and such parts as we see in others’ works, we are soon aware of, if they excel our own:  but for the simple products of the understanding, every one thinks he could have found out the like in himself, and is hardly sensible of the weight and difficulty, if not (and then with much ado) in an extreme and incomparable distance.  And whoever should be able clearly to discern the height of another’s judgment, would be also able to raise his own to the same pitch.  So that it is a sort of exercise, from which a man is to expect very little praise; a kind of composition of small repute.  And, besides, for whom do you write?  The learned, to whom the authority appertains of judging books, know no other value but that of learning, and allow of no other proceeding of wit but that of erudition and art:  if you have mistaken one of the Scipios for another, what is all the rest you have to say worth?  Whoever is ignorant of Aristotle, according to their rule, is in some sort ignorant of himself; vulgar souls cannot discern the grace and force of a lofty and delicate style.  Now these two sorts of men take up the world.  The third sort into whose hands you fall, of souls that are regular and strong of themselves, is so rare, that it justly has neither name nor place amongst us; and ’tis so much time lost to aspire unto it, or to endeavour to please it.

’Tis commonly said that the justest portion Nature has given us of her favours is that of sense; for there is no one who is not contented with his share:  is it not reason? whoever should see beyond that, would see beyond his sight.  I think my opinions are good and sound, but who does not think the same of his own?  One of the best proofs I have that mine are so is the small esteem I have of myself; for had they not been very well assured, they would easily have suffered themselves to have been deceived by the peculiar affection I have to myself, as one that places it almost wholly in myself, and do not let much run out.  All that others distribute amongst an infinite number of friends and acquaintance, to their glory and grandeur, I dedicate to the repose of my own mind and to myself; that which escapes thence is not properly by my direction: